


Memento

by LittleSammy



Category: NCIS
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-21
Updated: 2012-04-21
Packaged: 2017-11-04 02:16:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/388590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleSammy/pseuds/LittleSammy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Set towards the end of season seven for timeline purposes, but no spoilers. Even though this is Tony/Ziva, it carries heavy implications of Tony/Jenny. Also, it is not exactly a nice story.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Memento

**Author's Note:**

> Set towards the end of season seven for timeline purposes, but no spoilers. Even though this is Tony/Ziva, it carries heavy implications of Tony/Jenny. Also, it is not exactly a nice story.

The marker on the grave is a simple one, clean-cut and stylish, just like she was in life. _Jenny Shepard_ is all it says, except for the date of death. It's off by a few days but only a handful of people know that. 

One of them sits in the short grass beside the marker today. A silver flask is in his hand, filled with vodka, brought along to toast an absent friend and help drown the sorrow. It never works, at least not for long, but Tony never gives up trying.

"Happy anniversary," he says with a sarcastic twang to his voice and raises the flask to her grave, then knocks back a good mouthful.

He wants to say more, he always does, but just like last year and the year before, he doesn't find the right words. At least not the ones he can say out loud. _'I'm sorry'_ keeps running through his mind and sometimes _'I wish I could change things'_ but he never manages to actually tell her that. She probably knows it anyway, but sometimes he thinks it would be nice to get it off his chest.

"So, a lot of stuff happened this year," he says instead. His throat is tight because he knows that he should really learn to live with some of them, too. But he's never been good at letting go. If he were, he wouldn't be sitting here. 

"You'd be really proud of Ziva, you know. She's a baby agent now. And she and I... well. You probably wouldn't be too proud of that." He laughs, a short bark of amusement that is gone just as fast. "Yeah. Who'd have thought." He blinks and on further scrutiny revises his statement. Maybe Jenny would have thought.

He wants to tell her that he sometimes still wakes up and misses her. Not the lover. She never really was, despite the handful of really interesting nights during which he learned a few new tricks. No, he misses her like... like the stylish, kinky stepmom with a firm hand. She never let him come close but she was there when he needed advice. Guidance. And there was some form of trust between them that is hard to forget. He misses that, too, despite Ziva.

Soft footsteps ruffle the grass in his back, and he doesn't have to turn around to know who it is. She runs her hand through his hair when she's close enough, and that makes him turn his head after all and give her a quick smile. "Am I that predictable?" he asks, and Ziva shrugs.

"I know your moods," she replies quietly. "And I certainly know the date."

There's a single orchid in her hand, white, its lips tinted with dark lilac, and he watches her while she places it on the grave. Unconventional, but for Jenny it seems like the perfect choice.

Ziva's hand runs over the marker, and then she bends down and presses her lips to the stone briefly. She murmurs something in Hebrew, and for a second he thinks that he sees the same sadness in her face that has tightened his own chest just a few minutes ago. She's better at keeping it under control than he is, but he's glad it's there and he saw it. Makes him feel a little less insane to know he's not alone.

She comes back to his side and her hand grasps his shoulder, pressing gently. With a sigh he reaches up and runs his fingertips over the back of her hand.

"Yes," she says. "I still miss her, too."

He knows that what she really wants to say is _'You didn't fail her'_. He also knows that deep down, just like him, she isn't completely sure about it, and that's why she doesn't.

He stares at the grave maker. The grass around it is cut meticulously short, and he feels its prickly stubble against his palm. His thoughts do their usual thing and wander around aimlessly, and so he asks after a while, "You think anyone else ever visits her?"

Ziva shrugs; he can feel the vague movement in her fingertips. "I know Gibbs does," she says. "Maybe Abby. And I'm pretty sure about Ducky. But no one outside the team."

"That's sad."

"She had no family. And she never seriously dated anyone."

"She did. I saw the flowers she got." His words make her chuckle, and he turns his head to look at her after all. "What?"

"I knew her for a few years before she became the director, Tony. After Gibbs, she never dated anyone just for the social value. She spent most of her nights on the job," she replies, and he raises an eyebrow when he notices the careful phrasing. She meets his eyes and tilts her head. "Yes, Tony. Even most of _those_ nights she spent with a clear purpose."

He blinks and tries to wade through the words that have suddenly thrown him a whole new image of Jenny Shepard. It doesn't quite compute yet. 

"You mean she fucked guys just for information?" he says and winces even before the words are out completely. He wants to slap himself for his too-fast mouth because a less rude phrasing would have done just as well but it can't be helped now.

"Sometimes for loyalty," Ziva shrugs again and already smiles apologetically for what she is about to say next. "She tried it on me, too, until she realized that I used the same tricks back then."

His eyes widen because that's a direction his mind, despite its tendency to visit the gutter occasionally, certainly never strayed into before. He sees Ziva roll her eyes at him because she already knows what will come next. And yes, his mouth opens out of reflex, but that's the moment when he loses track of his own words because suddenly a few things click into place. 

_'I might have an assignment for you, Tony.'_

The bigger image he carries around in his mind suddenly feels a bit like a jigsaw puzzle that's been left half-finished and unattended for a few years. Sometimes there are moments when you come back to it, and you suddenly recognize all the missing pieces at once and where they have to go to complete the picture, and you wonder why you never noticed how obvious the solution is before. He blinks and remembers his hand running up a slim thigh and a throaty laugh that didn't last long.

_'But I need to be sure that you will handle it with the utmost discretion.'_

Ziva's hand runs through his hair again, affectionate, soothing, and he shakes his head while he tries to deal with what he has just learned. And because Ziva knows him, she also knows his head is busy.

"Don't think badly of her now," she murmurs and brushes the back of her fingers against his temple.

"I don't," he assures her. His thoughts flutter all over the place, though, and he looks up just in time to catch the slightly doubtful expression on Ziva's face. Maybe she knows there's something going on, but she really has no idea what. And that's good. 

"I don't," he repeats, his voice firm this time. "I just had no idea she was that... dedicated."

Ziva laughs and her soft chuckle makes his skin tingle. "Come, now. Do I have to remind _you_ that sometimes sex is nothing more than a pleasant thing?"

Her fingernails run through the short hair at the back of his neck and he feels the brief hesitation when he meets her eyes. She looks like she wants to take the words back now, and he reaches up to take her hand and squeeze it in reassurance.

He wants to tell her that he knows she didn't mean it like that. That between them it was always a lot more than mere pleasantries, even back when they didn't have sex yet. But as usual, he can't get the words out because he never really could before, and that's also one of the things he can't quite get over yet.

Ziva nods, though, and it's a small miracle that she understands him anyway. That's why they are so good together. When they want to, they just get each other perfectly.

"Come home with me," she says softly. "Eat. Mourn." She squeezes his hand back and gives him a wry smile, and he laughs. 

"Give me a minute?"

Ziva nods. Her face softens when she says her goodbyes to Jenny's spirit and then leaves him to his own thoughts. He knows she'll wait for him by the car and she won't let him drive because he's been drinking and because his thoughts are still all over the place.

_'You should know by now that you can trust my discretion... director...'_

He remembers her expression, the small, secretive smile she gave him just before she reached for the Grenouille file on her nightstand. Like he had just acted like a well-trained puppy and done exactly what she expected of him.

_'True... Agent DiNozzo.'_

He breathes out slowly while he lets his head fall back and closes his eyes.

"You played me," he says and laughs. His voice is slightly shaky with emotion, although he isn't quite sure which kind yet. The part of him that probably knows feels a bit numb right now. "You really played me." 

He wants to feel outraged at being manipulated like this, and he tries, but he doesn't get very far. Maybe because he can actually understand why she did it. That she was so deep into this that she wanted to make sure. That she desperately needed to rely on someone to do the dirty work for her, no matter _how_ dirty it would get in the end. 

He opens his eyes while he raises the flask to salute her once more. The vodka burns his throat, and he grimaces. Maybe Ziva's right, food sounds like the more healthy way to get over some things. 

He grunts while he gets back to his feet, shakes his stiff legs and brushes the grass off his pants.

"See you next year, Jen," he says and tips an imaginary hat.


End file.
